Matrilineal: Spark
by Macha
Summary: maybe next i'll give judas a try. Fourth in the Matrilineal series, after Em's Materinstvo, my La Paternité, and Em's Hotel.


SPOILERS: None, really.  
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to J.J. Abrams.  
SUMMARY: maybe next i'll give judas a try. Fourth in the yet-to-be-named series, after Em's Materinstvo, my La Paternité, and Em's Hotel.  
THANKS: To Em, for making me write this. And to Jo, for rocking.  
Spark  
Macha  
He sits on the plane stiffly, too aware of the man beside him, of the picture in his pocket. Vaughn doesn't remember much about Sarah Lewis's house -- he thinks it was blue, probably two stories -- but the details of the nursery are burned into his consciousness.   
  
Pale green walls, a polished wooden crib, a shelf full of brightly colored baby books above the rocking chair a drawer full of tiny clothes in pastel colors with flowers or dogs or ducks sprinkled across the fabric.  
  
He wonders if Jack was as shocked as he. Jack had given Vaughn a tough, unreadable look there in that nursery, that room that was proof of the nature of Vaughn's relationship with Sydney. Former relationship with Sydney.  
  
Vaughn is 32 years old, but the disapproval he thought he saw on Jack's face made him feel 14. No doubt Jack had decided to blame Vaughn for this, even though Sydney had made all the decisions. Vaughn wishes bitterly that he'd had a chance to be part of the decision-making process.  
  
He wonders how he could've been so stupid -- why had this possibility never occurred to him? But then, in his mind, she would never do this to him, never leave him to have his baby and hide her from him forever, and so he wonders if he'd ever really known Sydney Bristow..  
  
How could he have been so wrong about her?   
  
"She must've thought this was the safest option," Jack says, his tone just loud enough for Vaughn to hear, but too low to be overheard.   
  
He wonders if he is supposed to know what to say to that. "Yeah," is all he manages.  
  
He can feel Jack's probing gaze, the questions and accusations -- How could you not have noticed? -- scraping against his skin until he flinches. He snaps the seatbelt off, shoves himself out of the seat, lurches down the aisle until he finds a flight attendant.   
  
The whiskey burns a little at first, but it's exactly what he needs. Physical pain to dull the ragged edges of his nerves. He downs the little bottle's contents in a few gulps, fishes out five more dollars, and accepts another.   
  
It occurs to him as he drops back into his seat that he should've brought Jack one. Jack, who'd just seen pictures of the grandchild. A granddaughter of whose existence he'd just learned. Jack, whose daughter had gone missing over a year ago. Jack, who had actually looked rattled, for once, standing in that pastel nursery.  
  
But Jack isn't looking at him anymore. Jack is staring out the window, his trademark impassive look firmly in place, and Vaughn decides that his own shock is more than enough to deal with.  
  
Vaughn finishes the second bottle and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. He shoves his hand into his jacket pocket, touching the picture of his daughter -- the words still strange to him -- to remind himself that this is real. He doesn't think he can sleep, maybe won't ever sleep again, but soon he's jarred awake by the plane's tires bouncing onto the runway in Los Angeles.   
  
***  
  
His insomnia's back, and he lies in bed, Donovan curled up at his side, and stares at the picture of his daughter until her face is as familiar to him as her mother's. This discovery has thrown him off completely, and he's without any idea how to proceed.  
  
He's stymied by the enormity of this. He's never met Jane, but her small, sleepy features tug at him in some primal way. She's smiling into the camera, and she's got her mother's dimples. He puts the picture into a frame, protects it under glass in case he never sees another.   
  
Vaughn's phone rings repeatedly: Jack. Weiss. Jack. The agency. Weiss. Jack. He thinks even Marshall calls at one point.   
  
He doesn't answer. The caller ID tells him that it's not Sydney with an explanation, and there's really nothing else he can process right now.  
  
Though to be fair, he can't imagine an explanation that would do anything to lessen the burning indignation and anger.  
  
Before -- when his insomnia stemmed from his worry for Sydney, his fears that she wouldn't make it back and, consequently, that they'd never explore what lie between them -- before he would drive over to the rink and skate, practice drills in the cold silence until he tired himself out enough to sleep.  
  
This is a different kind of insomnia, a cruel, lethargy that denies him the energy to leave his apartment. He thinks the words "clinical depression" are probably too strong, but he understands, now, Jack's descent into an alcoholic haze when he learned of his wife's betrayal.  
  
If only the liquor store weren't quite so far away, Vaughn might try his hand at drinking himself to oblivion. Maybe then he could do something with all the anger trapped inside him, like trash his apartment, or possibly weep.  
  
He wonders if he should call his mother and tell her that she has a granddaughter, but he decides the explanation would be too much for him, and so he closes his eyes again, his body tense and uncomfortable under the sheets, and tells himself to sleep.  
  
It doesn't work.  
  
***  
  
Five days go by in a blur of daylight and deep, dark, nights. He eats what he can find in the refrigerator, and later what Weiss brings by. He knows he's not supposed to be this guy, not supposed to fall apart, but he doesn't have the energy to care.  
  
Weiss refuses to bring him alcohol. Vaughn shows Weiss the picture of Jane, of his daughter, and watches with a sick satisfaction as Weiss struggles for something to say. What do you say in a situation like this, Vaughn wonders.   
  
And then Vaughn tries to smile. He makes a bad joke about being thankful that the baby inherited Sydney's nose, and Weiss laughs a little bit wildly. He stays a while longer, then leaves Vaughn alone with Donovan.   
  
Jack shows up on the fifth day, carrying a bottle of whiskey.   
  
"Choose now," Jack says, placing the bottle precisely in the center of the kitchen table.  
  
Vaughn shakes his head. "What are you--?"  
  
"You have a daughter," Jack says, leveling one of his weighty stares on Vaughn. "You have responsibilities. You can either shower, get dressed, come with me to the office, and be the kind of father to your daughter that Sydney would want, or you can crack open this bottle of whiskey and be the kind of father that I was."  
  
Vaughn holds Jack's gaze for a long, torturous moment. Jack is holding nothing back, hiding none of his regret and self-recrimination for his years of abdicated responsibility. It's too much, and Vaughn looks away, staring at his folded hands lying there on the scratched wooden table.  
  
He can almost taste the whiskey oblivion, but he doesn't want to admit defeat just yet. He doesn't want to be a father mourning the daughter he never knew. He doesn't want to get a sterile fax one day telling him that his daughter is missing or -- he can't bear the thought -- or something else when the people who are after Sydney finally catch her. He wants Jane safe in his life, and he wants Sydney to damn well explain herself, and suddenly he's feeling again.  
  
True, most of what he's feeling is rage and despair, but at least it's not the paralyzing numbness. He swallows hard and he can't look at Jack when he admits, "I don't know where to start."  
  
"We need to find her," Jack answers simply. He's using his boss's voice, but Vaughn can hear the relief. "That's where we start."  
  
Vaughn knows it won't be that simple, knows the task is going to take a lot of time and some serious effort. He thinks his anger will probably carry him for quite a while.  
  
He pushes himself out of his chair and reaches for the bottle of whiskey. Jack opens his mouth, no doubt in warning, but Vaughn hurls the bottle at the kitchen wall, where the glass makes a very loud, very satisfying smashing sound.   
  
The smell of alcohol stings his lungs, but he breathes in deeply and heads for the shower.  
  
THE END  
  
Feedback cherished at Macha@healthyinterest.net  
  
The Sticky Wicket:   
  
Healthy Interest:   
We're not obsessed. Really. 


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